Pact Ink
by ange18
Summary: Jumanji. Terrible and beautiful. To players, it is a waking nightmare. To those who serve and live within- a dream. The cost isn't too dear- those select few people brought into the Jumanji, must simply dip a pen into It's ink well and sign the parchment.
1. Chapter 1

Heavy gears and cogs ground seamlessly, endlessly into one another. The rhythmic churning was so like a heartbeat- steady, pounding, pumping- natural in its processes. Yet, the metal itself was cold and sharp. Its' sound was impossible; it could only be heard in dreams, dispelled by the act of opening one's eyes.

Everything there lived and breathed by the tick, tick, ticking of the massive clockworks. A sound or rather the ghost of a sound could be heard. It eased through the tunnels, like a whisper through an ear canal. Drums. Faint and then loud and terrible. And wonderful.

A solitary breath slowly exhaled. A long finger slowly, sensuously caressed the cold metal. The single breath was accompanied by a whisper:

"Jumanji."

With a metallic click, Herr Ludwig Von Richtor shut his gold-pocket watch. It was precisely two minutes to Low Tea Time. He sat in his parlor, next the short tea table. Of course, if Herr Von Richtor had been inclined to less propriety, he might have stood for his tea.

He was a large man: broad shoulders, large chest, sturdy, muscular legs. Large men were not built to sit at tiny tables, eating from bone-china plates of dainty sandwiches and sweet dainties, nor drinking from bone-china cups. Tiny things were not made for him either.

He was, first and foremost, a gentleman. So such thoughts of 'comfort' or 'absurdity' of fragile little things enclosed in meaty-fists were banished.

The maid came in, carefully putting her load down on the table. She efficiently set out his saucer, then cup, then teaspoon. The scones and sandwiches sat upon their little tower next to him. The tea (strong, black, a man's tea) was poured out. He took no cream nor sugar. She bustled back through the door leaving him to drink his tea.

Sipping his tea Herr Von Richtor mentally went over the things to be done that day. After Tea, he would smarten up, yank back on his boots and walk south. A leopard's tracks, still fresh, he'd spotted earlier that day. So far, the creature had alluded him. Not for long. He was a professional.

After consuming one scone and two sandwiches, he rose. He looked out the window. Past the boundaries of his home, lay the jungle. The jungle's tree-line could just be made out from his vantage- greener than green. It was a particular green he had seen no-where else in his travels.

He'd been to Africa, nearly the whole continent in fact. The greens he'd seen there were nothing compared to this green. Artists, like the one who had painted one of his (many) hunting scenes on the parlor walls, could have mixed paints for a lifetime and never gotten it right.

Of course, this was of no surprise, he thought, smirking. This was Jumanji.


	2. Chapter 2: Enter Cosima

The gentle, steady drip of water off of the cannon walls and the large, unnatural stones cut through the dense silence of the place. Silence was abundant there; it was sharp, so sharp as to make one think it had sliced through the steep canyon walls.

On top of the hill, past the wicked vines and unyielding rocks, sat an impossible thing: a castle. Next to the castle, in the entrance, lay an unconscious figure. The only other noise to be heard, was the steady breathing and regular heartbeat.

Cosima opened her eyes. She shut them momentarily- surely she was still sleeping. She had fallen asleep at her Late Aunt's desk, looking over the countless bills and letters. She wasn't on a cliff. The drip of water was what roused her more completely.

Cracking open her right eye, she blinked. It was near pitch-dark and rather cold. Cosima opened her other eye and sat bolt upright. It was the middle of August. She had slept all night- it wouldn't be dark outside.

Cosima jumped to her feet and nearly fell backwards as a rock caught her foot. She backed away and peered out. She was not in her Aunt's house. Wherever she was, she was extremely high, with rain dripping down the sides of a sort of rock-face/entryway in front of an enormous door.

The door was splendid, but aged: huge, at about twenty feet high (so it seemed). It looked heavy, though it only had a (relatively) small brass knocker. It was non-descript- plain even.

She shivered and against her better judgment- she knocked three times.

The door didn't (as per the kind of horror films Americans made) open on its own. Instead, Cosima opened it. It wasn't nearly as heavy as she expected, and she stepped inside.

"Hello?" She called. When she looked around, her breath was taken away by the sight the met her eyes.

A hall, a beautiful one actually, greeted her eyes. It was in the late-Victorian style with neat-wood paneling and a beautiful polished floor. A small table sat near a chestnut door, which she assumed lead into a parlor.

Gas lamps glowed, casting shadows on the walls. She opened the door and indeed, there lay a parlor.

The parlor was like a dream- everything she had ever wanted. Cosima loved the Victorian and Edwardian era, and was a professionally trained dress-maker, who made period accurate clothing. She nearly fainted.

It was sizeable, and extremely plush. There were dark-blue and purple plush seating, including a beautiful neo-classical sofa. Ornate tables, a screen and lovely china curios and a huge engraved mirror over the unlit fireplace.

Next, there was a smaller room containing wonderful things.

A huge curio cabinet full of fantastic things sat at the far end, shining against the black and gold wallpaper. Pearl-white skulls of every shape stared back at her with empty sockets, shiny instruments, things in jars and several items she had no names for were all contained behind the curiously clean glass.

She smiled broadly and continued along. Down the hallway, were ten or so doors.

Downstairs, a lovely, though rather small kitchen (with a working range!) sat nicely appointed. Yet, this place felt like it didn't belong to anyone.

Shaking her head, she went on. The medium colored door, was a bedroom. No, she corrected herself, a boudoir. The wallpaper was lovely peacock pattern. The four-poster bed was done in various shades of lilacs, pinks and light blues.

And the wardrobe- it would have taken weeks to see all of it. She touched the lovely fabrics between her fingers, running along the seams, buttons, swirls, rosettes and lace. Boxes which promised splendid hats, shoes and gloves lay next to the dresses. A vanity table was the piece de resistance: beautifully carved out of light wood, inlaid with mother of pearl. On the top, a large, etched mirror.

"Che Bello!" She laughed.

Cosima then felt something undefinable. A niggling in the back of her head made her hair stand up on end.

Hanging back up a peacock-blue dress, she made her way out of the lovely room. Cosima's body gave a shudder. Not of fear, nor cold, nor excitement- but all three at once. Gooseflesh rose on her bare arms and on the nape of her neck.

Her legs carried her to a small, black door. Her hand reached down and turned the plain silver knob. The room was bare or nearly so- no cheery wallpaper, nor paint on the walls. And in the dead center of the room, sat a small, black table. On the top, lay a small round object covered in a gauzy gray shawl. Cosima yanked it back with an audible swish.

A dull, black scrying mirror lay in the middle of the table. Dust flew from every direction, forcing her to blink and cough. The mirror lay untouched.

She gazed into the mirror. Eyes peered back at her. Cosima nearly ran from the room, but found she could not.

They were not her eyes. These were hot, cold eyes. She trembled as she felt a presence behind her.

Her voice was lost, as she continued to stare into the mirror. A skeletal face grinned at her, from behind a rich purple cloak. Cosima's heart beat violently in her chest, as if trying to flee.

"Does it please you?" A deep, rasping voice cooed right into her ear.

She swallowed. Then the voice gave a laugh.

"I see all. Feel all. You are pleased with my work."

"You're… work?" She whispered. The voice laughed again, and caressed her neck from behind with a long finger. In spite of herself, she felt as if she was beginning to drift away from herself, as if into a deep sleep.

"I know your heart, Cosima De Sare." It breathed. "I offer this place, away from monotony, helplessness and hopelessness. Feeling your life ticking away constantly, nothing to look forward to but death."

She swallowed.

"But… you can make a choice. These things- this house, all you desire but cannot have outside, I can give you."

"And, the price?" She managed.

The laugh it gave was horrible and made her blood run cold. She snapped for a moment out of her reverie, only to be lulled back a moment later.

It pulled out a contract written on thick, brown parchment.

She forced her eyes open to peer at the contract. It read in part:

_Cosima De Sare, is to fulfill the duty of Sorceress of Jumanji. She is to fill this position, to the best of her abilities for a period of exactly one-hundred years. The course of her duties are, chiefly:_

_First and foremost, is that Miss De Sare is to do as instructed by Jumanji, immediately and to the best of her ability. _

_Second, is to aid in the smooth running and good repair of Jumanji_

_Third, to uphold and obey, as best as she is able, the rules of the game_

_Fourth, to aid her fellow citizens when called upon to do so_

_Miss De Sare is to be aided by and have the exclusive right to the Tome of Jumanji and any other sundry magical items she may lay first claim to._

She blinked. What did she have anymore? Very little, if she was honest. Well, no she had debts. She was about to lose her home, no job after she left to help her late Aunt, no lovers nor children (thank God). Without pausing another moment, she nodded.

A pen was thrust into her hands with words: "sign".

She felt immensely dizzy, and felt her hand pushed down (into ink she assumed) and gave her best signature.

Her vision clouded and she felt herself falling. She fell with a thud, but felt nothing.

She lay flat on her back and felt something above her, around her. Cosima could feel the coolness of the wood on her bare skin. Gooseflesh rose on her bare limbs. A cold, sharp pair of hands began to caress her. Soothing, but sharp like the warmth in one's fingers after coming in from the biting cold.

She heard herself exhale. The caresses caused her whole body to shudder. A cold, long finger prodded and probed.

Then, a weight came down upon her and pined her useless limbs. It was inside her- tearing, caressing, shaping. A violent pain ripped through her. Her voice was gone.

She felt cold and torn. Cosima attempted to look at herself, but the weight was too immense.

_My Chest is open, I'm open_ she found herself thinking. Something was wrenched from her and then tugged.

Something warm pooled around her. A metallic scent filled her nostrils and then her eyes clouded. Droplets fell, drip, drip, dripping, down and down.

All was quiet once again.


End file.
